The Divide
by OliviaUponATime
Summary: "Kurt - they want to make you a weapon." In their divided society, Kurt and Blaine are tested for abilities, with hundreds of other eighteen year olds. Sent to train in a deep crater that splits the world in half, the pair strike up a friendship. When a corrupt plot for a new world emerges, Kurt and Blaine must escape the life they never chose to free their future. Klaine. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys. I know I have other stories to write, but I'm really excited about this one! Glee is my favourite television show, and Klaine is my OTP! So I came up with a plot to write. . By the way, the specific times are necessary to the story. Image of hands on the cover from , by lyjufish.**

**I don't own Glee, or Somewhere Only We Know by Lily Allen.**

Kurt Hummel's life was a schedule.

He rose at six thirty two exactly, then showered for eight minutes until his portion of hot water as used up. He ate breakfast for ten minutes, then got dressed in the allotted three minutes of privacy. He was given twenty minutes of relaxation, before the seven minute and forty five second journey to the fields where he and his father worked. By now, it was seventy twenty, and he worked for seven hours before returning home (another seven minute journey). Dinner was at eight thirty nine, then he was given until curfew - ten o'clock - to do as he pleased. As long as it was in the list of allowed activities, and he didn't stray towards The Divide.

He didn't exactly like the specific routine. But he was used to it. It was how he was raised, and probably how he'd live for the rest of his life. Unless, of course, when he turned eighteen, he was classed as 'gifted'.

Kurt was born on the Left Side of The Divide. He had soft, sweeping brown hair and wide, crystal blue eyes. A thin body from the moderate amount of food and much exercise made him look twiggy and delicate. He looked like everyone else. He fitted into the crowd, and blended in. That was what they wanted. That was the custom, on the left side. Surely, he was no different? Just another unextraordinary face, who'd drop off the Earth one day and never come back, and no one would notice. It was the same with most people born on the Left.

He didn't know what was on the right.

It all happened to stop the wars, around seventy years ago. The government (long since lost. Now it was The Orformus, the upper class democratic society living underground that decided on the world's fate) realised that either the population would kill each other then, or keep fighting until there was nothing left. So they hired a team of incredibly intelligent nuclear physicists and scientists to collaborate with the top weapons experts and create a bomb that could blow a large crater across the middle of the Earth: one thousand two hundred feet deep, three miles wide. The world was split into two - the left and the right.

About a year before The Divide (the crater) was made, the government had taken a survey of every person in the world. All they needed was a name and an age. They filed it together into a book and ripped it in half, straight down the middle. Every name written down on the left side stayed on the left side of The Divide, whilst the rest went to the right. There was no contact between the two sides; people stayed on their own half, and there were no wars.

Inside The Divide were two places. The first was The Otium. This is where the Orformus and the richer, upper class socialites lived. It was luxurious, and the citizens never wanted for anything. They did as they pleased, when they pleased, where they pleased. And they plotted things - things none of the above grounders knew about.

The other part was called The Morel, where people were trained in their art. _Remarkable people._

Kurt lived in a small, square house with three rooms and a small, five by five feet garden. Everything was sterile, pure white and squeaky clean. The garden was grass where the residents could grow food, but not much grew where such violent weather occurred.

There were huge storms of harsh lightning, deafening thunder and sheets of torrential rain. None of it affected the uniform rows of houses, all equally spaced apart across half the Earth. They withstood tumultuous storms horrific weather and cruel conditions, and it simply passed them by. Stains did not stay on the stark white walls. They resisted any attack, any weather and any dirt.

Inside the Hummel household were only two residents. Kurt and his father, Burt. His mother had died ten years ago, and he was an only child. It was always quiet, until Burt went out to fetch food from the market or barter for extra hot water. Then the house was alive with noise, as Kurt sung. His voice was soft and gentle, yet high and passionate with raw emotion. When he sung, the neighbours stopped to listen; but Burt was always scared that if Kurt sand, he would be taken by The Orformus.

Whenever someone turned eighteen, they officially became an adult and left their house for a week of testing. There, they were probed for any shred of talent or special ability in their body. If they were deemed 'normal', they returned home with a pat on the shoulder and a contented sigh. if they showed talent, they were classed as 'Gifted' and taken before The Orformus. They were lowered into the Divide,where their talent was nurtured and they were offered a home in The Otium.

But no one ever came out.

Kurt was blissfully unaware of the pitfalls or the possibilities of his voice. So he only sung when his father was away, so he didn't hear Kurt, and Kurt didn't watch Burt's eyes close and his muscles tense as he sent Kurt to his room, silent.

Kurt didn't know any real songs. So he wrote them, on paper or old sheets or scratched into his wall with a shard of glass he'd once found. It was the only thing strong enough to penetrate the thick white wall, ands even then it was only thin, shallow scratches. He sung songs that he wrote, harmonies and all, and slowly built up a collection of pieces of music. He recited them in his head, and tapped out the beat during his slow shifts in the fields where he worked.

All Kurt was told was that when he was eighteen, in one week, he would be tested for an ability. His father told him to lie about it all, but Kurt was a virtuous boy. He was too soft, too gentle to lie to anyone. He would sing, and the birds would sing with him and he would be gone, without his knowledge or consent.

That really hurt Burt.

Despite the disapproval of his only parent, Kurt sung continuously. Out loud, he sung but one song of the many swirling around his head. There was usually only time for one verse, and he tapped along to it on the side of his bed.

_Oh simple thing, where have you gone?_

_I'm getting old and I need someone to rely on_

_So tell me when you're gonna let me in_

_I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin_

_And if you have a minute why don't we go_

_Talk about it somewhere only we know?_

_'Cause this could be the end of everything,_

_So why don't we go_

_Somewhere only we know?_

_Somewhere only we know?_

It was a slow, melodic harmony that soothed him and he sung it like an angel. But it could be the deciding factor in his fate, and Kurt really didn't want to leave his home.

If he'd known, maybe he wouldn't have sung.

But maybe, just maybe, he would have.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, I'm back! Now I'm throwing Blaine into the mix! I hope you like the story. If you don't, don't worry! I don't mind. Maybe leave a review?**

**I don't own Glee.**

Blaine Anderson often sat alone at night.

He didn't particularly want to be alone - he would have enjoyed sitting with his friends, but they were all too scared to leave their beds after eleven. He couldn't say he was surprised - the guards were ruthless, brutal and they would kill first, ask questions later. Well, they wouldn't ask questions at all. Shoot, kill, run. It was a dance of deceit, played out so many times it came naturally. Their brutal, sadistic nature was not a fluke, but a trait. They wanted to hurt people - they liked it.

Blaine lived on the Right Side of The Divide. WIth the disarray of his world, the irony of the name made him laugh humorlessly. He lived by a lax routine, with his parents and his brother, George. George was twenty one, and not talented, despite his ego begging to differ. His parents were constantly drunk - there was a large supply of free alcohol on the right side - and he usually stayed in his room. They loved him, they really did; but sometimes, things were so hard to cope with on The Divide that it was easier to drink until everything was clouded over and they couldn't stand.

Whilst on the Left Side, everything and everyone had a specific routine and a specific place, the right side was a kerfuffle of royal standards. The houses were oddly placed, mismatched shapes and made of random materials - weatherbeaten wood, cracked stone and even sometimes holes patched up with fabric. Everything was in disarray, with gang fights every night in the streets and loud, rambunctious people baning against the house windows. It was scary; no one ever knew when another fight would blow up.

Blaine wasn't academic. He was creative and vibrant, and intelligent, but it didn't interest him. So he gave up on his academic subjects and focused solely on making music - what was the purpose, in his world, of trying things you'll never do? He had no hope. None at would never succeed, ever. He was doomed to sit in his room, strumming his guitar. It was his most prized possession. It'd been in his family for years, passed down through generations. George had tried it, but never grasped the instrument. He simply didn't have Blaine's musical ear. Or, well, talent.

His parents were fuming when they heard he dropped out of school. His mother cried, his father threw a whiskey bottle at the wall and Blaine just shrugged, dark hazel eyes fixed on the floor at his father's feet. The bottle smashed, broken glass cutting through Blaine's thin trousers and scratching his legs. He just pulled it out, dabbed it with a little water and retreated to his room with his guitar and a tattered notebook. It was three days before he came out, thin and reserved. A bubble had formed; a barrier around the boy, and no one could talk to him through it.

Blaine was popular in his section of the Right Side. He was attractive and funny, loud, opinionated and the little slice of rebellion everyone wanted. He had many friends; but he never really saw them outside of school. Now he'd dropped out, all they could do was call round his once every few months. Even that became impossible after a while.

Inside his house was small and barely furnished. The floor was cold stone, with a moth-eaten, threadbare brown and scraggly rug underneath the window. There were three rooms – the bedroom he shared with his brother, his parents bedroom and the main room, where they ate, lived and cooked. The walls were hardly staying up, made of stone that is stuck together with watered down cement (just so they had enough), and could fall at any time. It was worrying and it made him feel unsafe even in his own home.

There were crack in the walls where the stone has been hit with fists and worn down over time by awful weather patterns. Even the crackling fire underneath the large pot in the area designated to cooking could not warm the whole house. They filled jars with boiling water and left them in the beds. Whilst it was not ideal, it was better than severe pneumonia. But sopping wet beds from leakages of broken glass weren't the most delightful things on an icy, rainy night.

He lived next to the woods, just six hundred metres from 'The Divide'. There wasn't much forest left – most of the place is taken up by large cities providing either small, beaten houses or the basic necessities of human life (food, water and clothing). Not many people were willing to leave the - just barely - safer city walls for the forest. The fights were worse near The Divide. But Blaine's father believed it was more protected there.

He'd downed a bottle of whiskey before he said it.

So Blaine Anderson spent the nights alone, where nobody could hear him as he sung into the moonlight.

He was leaving when the Testing Days arrived. He was never coming home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hola peeps! I bring to you the next chapter of my story! Love to you all, and virtual cookies by the hundred! I don't own Glee. If I did, Kurt and Blaine would never break up (although they did get back together, so yay!) and live happily ever after in New York. Sorry if this focuses too much on my OC - she's important later!**

"Kurt! Wake up Kurt!" The harsh sunlight made Kurt burrow further into his pillow, curling his legs up with the thin, scratchy sheet draped across his body. His father's calloused hands shook his shoulder to wake him up, but he shook him away. It was too bright, too early, too cold - he didn't want to wake up. Usually he had no problem springing from his bed, but today just felt… different.

"Ugh, Dad…" He trailed off, batting Burt's hands away from his body with little intent. Burt would have laughed at the feeble display of , but if his son didn't get up, they would be late for work. The left side was a tightly running system, and lateness was punishable by whipping. He didn't want his son to face that.

"Kurt, please. We need to leave. It's 6:35, and the hot water will be gone soon," At this, Kurt wrapped his arms around himself and slowly sat up, his bare feet hitting the cold floor with a resounding thud. Burt winced - everyone lived on edge on the left side. A loud noise could be the sound of a closing door: but it made a person jump like a gunshot.

"I'm comin' dad…" The usually perfectly composed boy stumbled from his room, eyes bloodshot and sleep deprived, hair tangled and messy. The shower was in the fourth room of the house, the other three being Kurt and his father's bedrooms, and the general living area. It was there that cooking, dining and the allotted relaxation time were put into place.

Kurt stood in the shower and let the warm water run over his exhausted body. Not hot… never hot. Always lukewarm, but slightly chillier in the winter. It was currently autumn, meaning the water was of a moderately bearable temperature. It was what Kurt had grown up with, and he knew no different. It was his life.

"Ah!" Kurt jumped out of the shower as the water switched to a freezing cold jet. Shivering, he wrapped a thin towel around himself, then returned to his room quietly. The entire house was sparsely decorated - Kurt's bedroom had only his bed, a cupboard with his few items of clothing and a mirror in it. It was small, but not what one would refer to as cosy. Draughty, damp and uncomfortable sprung to mind first.

Sitting on his bed, Kurt played with his hands until his three minutes of preparation for the day began. He smoothed his hair down, wiped his face with a harsh wash cloth and pulled on thin grey trousers and a loose white flannel shirt. Finally, he laced up his brown boots and walked quietly down the stairs, before eating the breakfast of bread and butter before him. It was the same breakfast every day - dry, hard bread and sour, curdled butter. Lunch was a slab of cheese and an apple, and dinner was more hard, dry bread with a bit of pork. It was always fish on Sunday, though.

When the government split the world, they realised that they would need as many resources as possible to provide for the upper class citizens living in The Divide. So they scheduled out meals and drink, so that everyone on each side got just what they needed to function correctly. Nothing more, nothing less.

When both him and his father had finished breakfast, they left the house and began on the neat stone pathway to the fields. Kurt walked tall and stiff, in the composed way he had been taught from a young age. Back straight, chin up, jaw stiff, eyes straight ahead, arms down by sides. Different people begin to walk ahead of them, but they stay in their synchronised, uniform pattern all the way to the fields. Each gender had the same haircut - the males, a short cropped style, simple and plain, and for females, a tight bun of shoulder length locks. The regulation clothing was the same for everyone; tight grey trousers with a white flannel shirt or blouse, a thick jacket, warm and actually rather comfortable, and a pair of lace up boots (brown,but fur lined and soft on the inside).

The crowds were powerful and equal as they walked down the path. There weren't too many people - maybe fifty - but they smiled at each other quietly, in the subdued ways they had learnt. It was natural, almost relaxed; however, nothing was relaxed on the left side. Not completely, was always a sense of nervousness, worry about what was around the corner.

They arrived at the fields in approximately seven minutes. Tools were passed around, and a tall girl clapped Kurt on the shoulder as she loped past. Her brown hair was pulled tightly away from her pale, prominently-boned face, and looped in a knot at the nape of her bounced on the balls of her feet, as her lanky form strolled away, with a wink and a wave in Kurt's direction. He smiled at her - she was the polar opposite of him. Her name was Olivia, and she was eighteen years old. Being just a few months older than him, they had been in the same classes at school from aged four to sixteen. Then they left, and moved to working in the fields.

They were friends, very close friends; best friends, actually. She was loud and bubbly and vibrant, where they should be quiet and subdued and nervous. Olivia had a gift of brutal honesty, a sharp wit and a gift for storytelling. Crafting her plots carefully, she spoke eloquently and told stories of sad, sad people in a sad, sad world. That was her synopsis,anyway.

Kurt loved to listen to her stories, and she loved to listen to him sing. Swapping secrets, talents, fears… If they knew of the testing process, they would train together for the chance to be free of the regulation life they lived.

Or at least Olivia would. She did not fit into the Left Side - many thought she should live on the Right. She had no family. No one knew why. Kurt would stay for Burt, was he afforded the choice. But Olivia?

Olivia Smith had nothing to lose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi guys! I'm back with some more Blaine! I hope you're enjoying The Divide so far, and please, feel free to leave criticism in the reviews, or in a PM! I'm working on making chapters a bit longer as well. I know Blaine's father/parents aren't supportive of him in the show, but I wanted him to have a resolution at least somewhere.**

Thanks for reading guys,

I don't own Glee, or any related characters/other paraphernalia. Copyright goes to FOX and Ryan Murphy, plus all the other people affiliated with Glee.

Blaine Anderson's bed was narrow enough that if he rolled just ever so slightly too far to the right, he would fall and hit his head on the hard-packed dirt flooring. If he rolled just ever so slightly too far to the left, he would hit cobblestone wall.

So when his brother George shook him hard enough to knock the early morning cobwebs from his brain, he forgot about his narrow bed and burrowed further under the covers, moving ever so slightly too far until… BANG! He rolled out of the bed, and in the brief moment of limbo between mattress and floor, looked up at George, glaring. But his anger diminished as his head began to sting, and he shook with pain and the splitting migraine-like injury on his forehead.

"Shit, B. I didn't mean for that to happen…" George trailed off, looking guilty, Blaine grimaced, but shook his head gently as if to tell George, no, it doesn't matter.

"It's cool, Georgeous," He said, emphasising the childhood nickname, If his brother wasn't bleeding from a thin cut on his face, George Anderson would have shoved him. Really, he would.

He ignored his melting heart.

"Breakfast's downstairs, if you, uh, want any?" Blaine shook his head, gesturing at George to leave the room with the hand that wasn't pressed to his wound. When the usually confident boy bumbled from the room, Blaine let his brave expression sink and contort in pain. Deep breathing, deep breathing… Deep breathing was said to help.

It didn't.

Stumbling to his feet, he walked into the bathroom, and, with one hand holding under the crack on the sink to stop the water flowing out (and failing), Blaine wet a thick piece of cloth and held it to his head, until the cold water numbed the pain. He sighed, the dropped the material into the marble basin and walked into the main room. It was dark - as per usual- and slightly ingy, but there was a loaf of fresh bread on the table, spread with thick cream cheese and sprinkled with raisins. It was a rare day on which there was more than fruit for breakfast - it made Blaine smile, even though he knew why there was a fancier dish on the table.

Today was the Test.

Most people on the Right Side knew that if you were chosen during The Test, you would never come back. People said it was so that said person could be trained in their talent, and Blaine didn't doubt that. Sure, he dropped out of school, rebelled against his parents and their drunken ways, all the while being brutally honest yet remaining painfully dapper.. That didn't mean he wanted to live out the rest of his life as a jobless old man, living with his parents until he died. Maybe, he would be good enough to leave, with just his guitar and his voice. Perhaps they had the other instruments his grandparents had spoken off - a violin, a piano, drums, a cello… But could he leave George?

For years, he had basked in the glorious thought of leaving his Side. He had pushed the loss of his brother to the back of his mind. Mere hours before his Test, he could no longer ignore it. Surely George could visit him? Even as he thought it, he knew he was deluding himself. His old friend Mia's sister (was she called Amy?) had been talented at baking (an odd talent for them to want, he thought) - and she left after her Test. She never returned, and Mia could never visit.

"Blaine? Bl-a-aine?" A calloused hand waving in front of his face caught his attention. George was stifling a laugh at the lost expression in his brothers face. If Blaine did leave, he wouldn't miss George's odd sense of humour in the least. But George's expression was instantly sombre as their parents walked through the door.

Blaine's mother had his large black curls, and his father had the same deep brown eyes. His olive skin was a mystery, and so was his musical talent. As far as he knew, his parents weren't musical, and it wasn't in his genes, if George was anything to go by.

"Blaine? George?" A gruff voice called into the room.

"In here," Said George, his face strained. He knew what was coming for his brother.

Their mother walked towards them, and there wasn't a trace of alcohol on her breath. She patted George's cheek, and smiled slightly at Blaine. He was shocked at first - his parents were often drunk. Maybe they'd come to wish him luck on his Test? They was never much interaction in the family.

James Anderson made his way across the room to his oldest son. He wasn't particularly good with affection - he patted George on the back, then clapped Blaine on the shoulder.

"Blaine. I need to talk to you," he said. Blaine furrowed his brow.

"Why?"

"Just come!" Huffed his father, grasping his wrist and pulling him into his bedroom.

"It's your Test today, isn't it?" Blaine nodded in reply. James sighed.

"Blaine, you need to sing for them."

"What?" Now he was completely confused.

"You think we don't hear you sing? You're good, Blaine. You're really good." James patted his son's shoulder stiffly and awkwardly. Blaine shook his head.

"If I am good enough… I can't leave you. Any of you!" His eyes were wide with shock, his hands shaking slightly as he jumped up, prepared to leave the room. His father pushed him back down, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Blaine, you do know they'll probably find out anyway, right?"

"How?"

"Look, they just do! You can't stop them anymore than I can! They know, Blaine, things we try to keep quiet. If you sing for them, you'll have a better chance of getting out of here. I know you want to."

Turning away, Blaine saw from the corner of his eye as his father pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course he want's to get out of The Right Side. Have a better life, a better future. But he couldn't leave George. Or his mother. Maybe not even the father who'd spent most of Blaine's life being drunk or disappointed in him. It didn't matter. They were his family, and Blaine was not selfish.

He wanted, just for a minute, to be a selfish man who would do right by only himself.

"Blaine, I'm not much cop as a parent. I'm know I've messed up. And I don't expect you to forgive me, or trust me. You don't owe me anything. But I owe you so many things that I just can't give. A better childhood. A better father. A better life. The best I can do is get you out of here. Go and become the best of what you do, and live in The Otium, and meet someone nice and have a happy rest-of-your-life." Blaine had turned back to face him, and he saw only regret in his father's eyes. No drunken haze of confusion, just sadness - so much sadness.

"I don't wanna leave George." He stated it bluntly, and his father did not wince. Instead, James nodded in agreement.

"Look, I know what you mean. But George is a big boy - he can take care of himself."

Blaine neglected to mention that it wasn't George looking out for himself that worried Blaine. He wanted George to look out for him - to go on stupid brotherly bonding trips that could get them killed, or tell him about growing up and girls. Admittedly, George had already told Blaine all about girls. Blaine still remained completely uninterested. He knew that he liked boys - it was a fact, and he wasn't going to change it about himself. He liked boys. So what?

"Yeah, but… what about you and mom? How do I know you'll still provide for him? This is the first time in years you've had a conversation with me without being completely intoxicated!"

"God, Blaine… is that really what you think of me?" Blaine couldn't bring himself to answer. It wasn't as if his father ever offered him any other opinions. He'd grown up to a drunken couple who gave him the clothes on his back and the food and drink he needed to live. He was used to it.

"Well, I never really got another damn option!" He was yelling now, but James' soberness allowed him a control over his emotions that he'd never experienced before.

"Blaine, sit down." His voice was calm and steady, but had a certain darkness to it that made Blaine - somewhat unwillingly - perch back on the lumpy mattress.

"Blaine, I have been an awful parent to you. So, you dropped out of school and rebelled against everything. I was too drunk to notice. And George? He practically had to raise you himself. I'm not going to forgive myself, and I'll probably be drunk by tomorrow when you leave. But I would never, ever let George go one day unfed, or without water. I love you, and I love your brother - I just messed it up too badly for you to trust me again. And you can hate me, but I could never, ever, ever hate you."

Blaine's breath came in dogged pants, sharp and harsh against his throat. His eyes were wet with tears, but he couldn't cry. Everything was blurry - what had his dad said? He didn't even know.

"I don't… hate you, Dad. But I don't trust you, you're right. And if you guys don't look after George, then I will lose whatever miniscule speck of respect I gained for you today." James nodded frantically, and patted his son on the shoulder again.

Blaine left the room, his shoulders sagging, but a weight lifted from his back.

"I am trying, you know. To get cleaned up," James smiled wistfully at the boy who he'd lost. Things were so hard on The Right Side - fights, lack of jobs, crumbling houses, sadistic guards. A drink made it easier for him, but it destroyed his two son's lives. The best he could do was give them a brighter future - even if it meant losing them both. George, he could provide money, clothes, food and a home for, but Blaine? Blaine had a chance to leave his hellhole of a home for good. He'd be darned if the boy didn't take it.

"I know, Dad. I know."

The smile Blaine gave in return was tinged with melancholy, but it was a smile, and he'd never been afforded one of his son' before.

"Thank you, Blaine."

"Mom?" Blaine called into the dark main room. His mother sat cross legged on the ground, her arms folded. Her long black curly hair was twisted away from her face into a messy braid, and her eyes were closed. She opened them, smiling forcefully, and turned to face her son.

"Yes, Blaine?"

"I just wanted to say goodbye. In case I leave after The Test." Phyllis Anderson's breath hitched, but she kept her shallow smile painted across her dainty features. Blaine had his father's chiselled jaw and thick 's features were like his mother's - small, delicate and innocent. Pity the bearer did not match.

"Okay. Well, goodbye, Blaine." He shook his head slightly. His mother was so blank, so emotionless; wouldn't she care if her left?

"Yeah. Bye." He turned away to leave, but felt a vice like grip of cold fingers on his wrist. Jerking around, he saw his mother standing up and looking him directly in the eyes.

"I'm sorry, Blaine. I've already spoken to George. I hope you can forgive me.I've been a terrible mother, to both of you. It was just so hard. I couldn't stand to see all the suffering, so I thought that the drinking… the drink meant I couldn't see it."

Blaine looked at her sadly. She's blanked him and disapproved of him, insulted and seemed to hate him. She and his father were drunk consistently, and now he'd received two apologies in one hour. He didn't know what to make of it. And he remembered the hug from not so long ago, and he patted her cheek gently. Phyllis removed her hand from clutching at her youngest son's wrist.

"I love you, B." She whispered, and he blinked away tears. He wouldn't cry for the people who'd messed up his entire childhood. They didn't deserve it.

A gentle nod. A single tear. He gave nothing more than that.

Finally, Blaine walked outside to the scrap of patchy grass that lay outside of his front door. The door squeaked, but it was barely holding on at the hinges and made no resistance as he pushed it open. Sure enough, George sat quietly on the scraggly plants and wet mud, his eyes downcast and his hair a shaggy mess (as per usual).

"I know you're there, Blaine. And I know what you're going to say." Blaine sighed. This was going to be a lot harder than he'd originally thought.

"George, I might not even leave, you know," Blaine trailed off. George turned around, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Great, he thought. More crying.

"Yes you will. You're talented Blaine. You don't know it as much as you should, but you're so good. I can't stop you from leaving if it'll make you happy."

"Please, George. If I leave, I want to leave on good terms with you."

George looked at him, directly in his dark eyes, and began to cry. It started out a dry sobs, but his shoulders shook and he buried his face in his calloused palms. Blaine instantly reached out an arm, wrapping it around his older brothers scrawny shoulders.

"I want to be selfish, you know. I want to make you stay and guilt you into never leaving." Blaine sighed.

"I understand, George. I really do." George buried his face into his brother's shoulder, and groaned.

"No you don't - you're just saying that to make me feel better."

"I know."

"I love you, Blainers."

"I love you too, Georgeous."

**Oh, for a cheesy, cliched ending!**


End file.
